


Five Times Derek and Stiles Argue About Batman (and One Time They Agree About Captain America)

by Spitshine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, College, Enthusiastic Consent, Fisting, Future Fic, M/M, Nerdery, Rough Sex, Rug Burn in Awkward Places, Spanking, Wrestling as Foreplay, power bottom! Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it sounds like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Derek and Stiles Argue About Batman (and One Time They Agree About Captain America)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[Podfic] There's My Territory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577836) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017). 



> So I've been working on the arguments part of this fic for about a week now (because I love Stiles and hate Batman and really just needed a way to make him see the light) and sat down this afternoon to finish up the sex part of it... and was completely blindsided by the fisting part of it. What can I say? Derek has needs.
> 
> Contains a potentially triggering slur used in an affirmative rather than insulting way; deets in the end notes.

**[1]**

Derek gets to Scott's dorm to find Stiles rambling on and on about some plan he has to fight the chimera hiding out in the school's power plant—nonsensically, of course—and Derek finds the tangential asides just a little much for his attention span to handle. It's not that he can't pay attention to Stiles, because really, that's the least of his problems... it's just that he's paying more attention to the mouth than the words leaving it.

Until he hears Stiles say something about how he's so smart and inventive, he's like Bruce Wayne.

“What is with your obsession, anyway? He's not even a superhero. He's just some rich dude with too much time on his hands.”

“Not—excuse—obsess—a super— _what?!_ ” Stiles sputters.

“Superheroes,” Derek says slowly, “have superpowers. Batman, on the other hand. Has no. Super. _Powers_. Therefore, he cannot be a superhero.”

“Look, you don't have to talk to me like I'm a child, okay? I know kind of a lot about this. And his superpower—much like mine—is his amazing brain. Which he uses to concoct great plans and invent super-cool gadgets that more than make up for his lack of being a werewolf or whatever you think constitutes a 'real' superhero.”

“No, Doctor Manhattan's amazing brain is a superpower.”

“So, the Watchmen are superheroes? Because the other five don't technically-”

“No, _Doctor Manhattan_ is a superhero. The other five just go to show that DC has no idea how to create decent a hero. Or story. Or universe.”

“Guys-” Scott starts to interject, hands up in what is surely intended to be a pacifying gesture. Unfortunately, no one pays him any mind.

“What are you, a Marvel fan?” It's a good thing for Stiles that he's built up an immunity to Derek's death glare, like ancient kings did with poison, just a little dose at a time until even a big wallop that could mow down entire armies has no effect on him. “Yeah, I bet you are. What, are you gonna dye your hair blond and start cosplaying Captain America? Or maybe Winter Soldier? Yeah, you've got that tragic-past-no-feels thing down pat, huh?”

Okay, so maybe Stiles isn't totally immune to the death glare after all.

**[2]**

Stiles is still mad about Derek shitting on his idol the next day, so he texts Derek. Because everyone knows anger is best dealt with via text.

11:36 a.m.  
At least DC has well-developed villains.

11:37 a.m.  
At least Marvel lets their heroes make morally complex decisions in the moment instead of pretending what's right and wrong is always straightforward and easy.

That's... a fair point. Not that Derek ever needs to know.

**[3]**

They run into each other at the grocery store next, which is honestly still kind of weird, thinking of Derek as the kind of normal that has an apartment and a grocery list instead of, say, the burnt-out shell of a house and a vendetta. Derek might be proving himself to be the biggest nerd in the group (which honestly, kind of sucks, because what is Stiles then? The basketcase? The _princess?_ ) because it's Stiles who says hello like a person and Derek who just starts in with, “How would your average person even do what Bruce Wayne does?”

“Uh, that's kinda my whole point, he's not _average_ , he-”

“No, I mean, a poor person. Even a middle class person. Even if they were as smart and driven and heroic, if you wanna call it that, as he was, they'd never be able to afford a Batmobile. A Batcave. Alfred. Enough food to feed an apparently endless string of teenage buddies.”

“Sidekicks, thank you, and your precious Bucky was once also an inexplicably young hanger-on. And isn't it kinda nice, to think that there are actually people with the means and abilities to fight crime, who _want_ be a force of good in the world?”

“Look, Bucky lived on the base, the military was feed—that's not the _point_. It's pretty depressing, actually, to think that nobody needs superpowers to stand up for justice and fight crime and wrong doing or whatever. Because that means they just don't. They could, they don't need any superpowers, just their own personal motivation to live in a better world. But they don't. Every day, across the world, billions of people are choosing not to do that.”

“Dude. No wonder you're so angry all the time. Lighten up.”

“This is the world we live in, Stiles. It's real. Some people have way too much money and way too much power and I should know. My mom was a lawyer, and she didn't even need the money. The pack has enough money that I could buy half of Beacon Hills and still never have to work a day in my life. There are people with power, and people with privilege, and nobody is using it to help anyone else. I listen to the news. Poor people help one another, rich people stab each other in the back.” Stiles had never seen Derek say so much all in a row, and especially not in the bread aisle, so worked up he had to take a deep breath before he could go on in a softer voice, sounding almost vulnerable. “It's easier, for me, to think the reason people don't do what Bruce Wayne does is because they can't. They don't know how; they don't have the ability.”

“Okay, but really, you're proving your own depressing logic wrong. Because you do this shit all the time! Well, I mean, you do definitely have some super powers-”

“Grocery store, Stiles,” Derek growls between clenched teeth, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“I mean, uh, you definitely do have some super pecs! You could be a total crime fighter-”

“Okay, shut the fuck up until we get to the parking lot. I know for a fact you have no filter.”

Stiles shuts up then, because the man has a point, and follows Derek around as they complete their shopping—and this act of normalcy throws Stiles so off-kilter that he actually waits for the automatic doors to close behind him before picking up exactly where he left off.

“You're proving yourself wrong, dude, you're totally Batman here! You want to help people—you didn't even have anything to do with Scott getting turned, but you helped him learn control, and with the—the others, you saw they were in a bad situation-”

“Because that ended _so well_ ,” Derek growls, shoving his groceries into the backseat with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. “I don't know what sort of delusions you have about me, Stiles, but you might as well drop them. I turned those kids because I needed the protection of a pack. Me. It was selfishness and that's it. And when—when they realized what I had done, and why, they walked out. I'm yet another example of a spoiled, selfish rich person trying to get ahead. Not Batman. Not making the world a better place. Sure, I have some powers. I'm a little faster, a little stronger, heal a little quicker. I'm not a superhero. The best thing I do for other people is listen to _Democracy Now_ every morning and try not to abuse the privilege of my birth anymore than I absolutely have to.”

“You're trying, Derek. You're a good person.”

“Whatever, Stiles.” He slams his door.

**[4]**

He walks out to his Jeep after his folklore class with the intention of heading out to the Indian buffet and is somewhat surprised to see the Camaro pulled up next to it. And Derek, leaning against the battered driver's door of the Jeep.

“What's the emergency?”

“Does there have to be an emergency?”

“I mean, no, there doesn't _have_ to be one but there has been some sort of horrible supernatural shit going down literally every other time you just show up unannounced talk to me, so... What's the emergency?”

“Nothing. I just got you this.” And Derek shoves a comic book into his hand before ducking into his Camaro. He rolls down the passenger window to yell, “Marrying Batwoman, seriously? Could he be more heteronormative?” over the sound of his engine roaring to life.

*******

An hour later, Stiles' phone buzzes him back to reality with a text. Stiles is not going to tell anyone, ever, that that hour was spent not downtown, stuffing himself with tikka masala and naan but instead in his dorm, drooling over the idea of Captain America taking him over his knee like he does Bucky and doling out the corporal punishment. Nor will anybody ever know how many times he came in that hour.

2:02 p.m.  
Enjoying the comic?

2:02 p.m.  
Shut up shut up I hate you.

2:02 p.m.  
By the way, I don't know how familiar you are with the Cap storyline, but in the 80's Steve Rogers gets a job drawing comics. His editors don't really get why he's so great at drawing big ToF-type guys, but I have an idea.

2:03 p.m.  
ToF?

2:03 p.m.  
Tom of Finland. I swear, you're the worst babyqueer ever. What are they teaching you?

2:06 p.m.  
Uh, I don't know what sex ed was like back in the Iron Age, but ours was a little less... graphic.

2:07 p.m.  
Also Cap totally had a lady love, so who's heteronormative now? Booyah!

2:07 p.m.  
Oh please. Like you never had a ten-year crush on some totally unattainable girl before you figured out the reason you picked an unattainable girl was that you didn't want to attain her.

2:08 p.m.  
And he never got married.

2:08 p.m.  
Not everyone has an awesome family who explains what it means to like more than one gender before their kids even hit puberty.

The “like mine,” goes unsaid and Stiles doesn't comment. Even he isn't so much of an ass to poke the bruises when Derek brings up his folks. Also, he's sort of distracted by the boner _yet again_ pushing insistently against his jeans. Seriously, it's like he's having a jerk-off-off with his high school self or something.

2:09 p.m.  
You big faggot.

_Fuck_ , Stiles thinks, chucking his phone across the room and going back to his computer as he falls onto his bed, one hand already down his pants. Why had no one told him about this? Those muscles make even Derek look like a weakling, and... shit, he was so tired of the smaller guy always being on the fucking bottom that seeing a ripped masculine guy split open on one huge cock after another is like a breath of fresh air.

Not that a single guy that pops up on his google image search looks _anything_ like him; it's just nice to know he isn't the only one with these fantasies.

Derek knows about Tom of Finland. Derek knows so much about Tom of Finland he uses an acronym. _Derek has these fantasies._

Fuck.

Derek called him a faggot, and considering that time he walked in on Derek sucking some guy off in the Jungle's bathroom, he knows he means it... affectionately? Derek has... affection? For Stiles?

Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_.

**[5]**

Stiles doesn't even bother greeting Derek when he walks into his room the next day and dude is just _there_ , all lounging on his bed like he can't smell what that does to Stiles.

Derek doesn't bother with a greeting either. “Batman is a coward. He never really takes care of the criminals, just hangs onto them until a 'real authority figure' shows up.”

“Look, Batman is a _good_ good guy. He never kills anyone!”

“Right... he just captures them and waits for the courts to do his dirty work for him. Sounds like a coward to me.”

“He believes in the law! There's nothing cowardly about that!”

Derek looks unamused. “The system is flawed. If Batman was really as smart as he's supposed to be, he'd know that turning criminals over to the law is a great way for them to walk free again.”

Stiles bristles at that. “Look, what are you saying? Because my dad is a cop and-”

“Your dad is a sheriff, not a police officer—which is what Batman works with—and I'm not saying anything about individuals in the system, because that's a whole other argument. I'm saying _the system_ is flawed. On the one hand, you've got totally innocent people being arrested for murder-”

“Sorry about that.” Stiles' self-righteous indignation seems to have deflated a bit.

“-and their reputations suffering despite the whole 'innocent until proven guilty' thing, which is great in theory but horseshit in practice, and on the other... Do you happen to know the stats for deaths resulting from cops using excessive force last year?”

Glare. Glare glare glare.

“Stiles?”

“Yes,” he grits out.

“And do you know how those stats break down by race?”

“What's your point?”

“An actual hero would deal with shit himself instead of turning quote-unquote bad guys over to some higher authority who you know is just gonna mess it up. And I know you don't really believe in the system, either, because you never just let the sheriff's department deal with things themselves. You're always getting involved, like you know they don't have the ability to handle situations as they should be handled.”

“But... don't you think it's admirable that Batman holds himself to a higher standard? That he refuses to sink to their level?”

“What I think is that some people deserve to die.”

And that's when Stiles remembers that Derek had been forced to kill his first girlfriend. That his whole family had died in a fire. That the person responsible for said fire had been killed extra-legally. That her dying was absolutely the right ending to the situation.”

“You're, uh, yeah. You're right.”

**[6]**

Derek waits until he's pretty sure Stiles has stopped feeling guilty about the whole Kate thing... as if anyone but Derek needs to feel guilty about the whole Kate thing... and sends him a link.

1:04 p.m.  
Batman sucks.

1:04 p.m.  
http://archiveofourown.org/works/2577836

1:07 p.m.  
Fanfiction. Really?

1:08  
You haven't even listened to it yet.

1:08 p.m.  
Listen to the sequel too.

1:08 p.m.  
Trust me.

1:09 p.m.  
It's worth it.

1:09 p.m.  
Then read this. http://archiveofourown.org/works/2600447

1:11 p.m.  
Whatever, Sourwolf. I'm totally telling everyone you're a secret fanboy and you ship Cap/Bucky.

1:12 p.m.  
You know “ship,” which means you're a fanboy too. Don't even front.

1:19 p.m.  
I just really like Batman, okay?

1:19 p.m.  
Please tell me not with Superman. He's such an asshole.

1:21 p.m.  
Look, do you want me to listen to this or not.

A few minutes into the podfic, Stiles blushes and scrambles for his headphones. His roommate is at class but dude already think he's a freak, so the last thing he needs is anyone walking in on him listening to underwear porn. Captain America underwear porn, specifically.

The first one ends, and he grabs his keys, phone, and headphones before running out of the room, almost dropping everything in his haste to get down the stairs and out the door. The drive out to Derek's apartment doesn't take much longer than the nine minute fic, but he doesn't even bother taking off his headphones as he clatters onto the porch and up the stairs towards Derek's half of the duplex.

Derek, of course, hears the commotion and is heading down the stairs when Stiles runs right into him.

Derek flicks at the headphones, sending them back to settle around Stiles' neck. “Like the fic, huh?”

Stiles doesn't say anything, just rushes into Derek's space, puts his hands on Derek's shoulders and pushes him into the doorjamb, kisses him hard and desperate and unthinking. He hadn't planned on this when he left the house, hadn't planned on anything, actually, he just knew that the story did... things... to him, and given how much everyone pretended not to know about his crush on Derek, given how many arguments they'd had about Batman and Cap before Derek had—had, fuck, before Derek had sent him super great, _super kinky_ porn, he just... couldn't sit still. Could not stay in his dorm and pretend everything was normal. “You win, okay?” Stiles murmurs into the kiss. “Batman totally sucks, Captain America is way better... and I've never read Superman porn, okay? That's just gross.”

Derek doesn't know how to respond, not at first. He stands, frozen except for his ragged breaths and blinking eyes, not quite returning the kiss but not quite refusing it, either. But when Stiles starts rambling, he feels himself back on familiar ground. He smirks. “Of course I'm right. But Stiles—what are you doing? Are you sure-?”

“Shit, I—I totally should have asked, that's, like, consent 101 and way messed up of me. I'm so sorry. Do you want me to—I can leave.” He pulls back enough to see Derek shaking his head, slowly but emphatically. “Derek. You sent me porn. On my phone. Hot, kinky, gay porn. That was well-written and well-read even though honestly I've never understood why there are so many more girls into slash than gay guys, that girl has a really good reading voice and—it was just _godammit, Derek, kiss me._ ”

And now Stiles is even closer, eyes wide and earnest and his mouth is so—and he smells like, oh fuck, he smells like he's finally legal but is still way, _way_ too young and everything Derek thinks about at night. So Derek kisses him. And they kiss. And then they keep kissing. “Did you read the one about Italy?”

“What? No.” Stiles is trying so hard to talk without breaking the kiss. “Kinda got distracted. You-”

“This can wait then.” Derek is not seriously pulling back and grabbing at Stiles' phone, except he is, he's pulling them up the stairs and into his living room and pushing them onto the couch and then he's reading and oh my god Stiles did not know story time could ever be this good. Holy god, his _voice_ and his _eyes_ on Stiles as he reads, flicking up and down like he can see exactly the effect he's having on Stiles under all those layers.

“You—you like that? The wrestling. And the, and the snark. And. Everything?”

“Stiles. Would I ever talk to you if I _didn't_ like the snark?”

“I thought you were just a, a glutton for punishment or something.”

“Oh, I am. I just prefer it to look a little more like that comic book you most certainly did not enjoy.”

This is way more than anyone who is, at last, macking on their three-year crush should be asked to deal with. “Stop smirking, asshole!”

“Or what? You gonna pin me to the bed and give me a thorough rogering?”

“Jesus!”

“That doesn't sound like a 'no'.”

“So... Tom of Finland... I guess you wanna be the big muscley guy on the bottom, then?”

“What I really want is to be the person that you're not putting on some crazy pedestal because you have these probably-not-actually-accurate perceptions of me and instead we can just be these two naked people having a good time. But more specifically, yes, I would like to be on the bottom... at least this time.”

“This time... there could be... more times?”

“You really have been this obtuse the whole time, haven't you.” Stiles just looks over at him blankly. “Never mind, we can talk about your remarkable lack of observation later. Right now, I think more kissing is in order. Hopefully that spanking. Would definitely be all about getting fucked. After that, I'm pretty open to ideas.”

“Do you want it be, like, a punishment-type-spanking, or just a funsies spanking?”

Derek shrugs. “As long as we both know you're not really angry with me, I could go either way. Anything you want to punish me for?”

“Oh my god, that smirk should be illegal. Uh, punish you... not exactly. But if we were to wrestle like Steve and Bucky there... you could throw the fight, huh? And then I could punish you for holding back.”

At that, Derek launches himself across the couch at Stiles, managing to roll them both on the floor so Stiles has him nominally pinned, and leans up to whisper, “My safeword is 'Finstock',” into Stiles' ear before he starts giving every appearance of a struggle.

Stiles only lets his utter shock slow him for a moment before throwing himself into the fray, teeth bared and nails sinking hard into Derek's wrists. He can tell, if he stops to think about it, that Derek is fighting back in the least effective way, twisting his wrists and writhing his hips side to side but not pushing up any further than he needs to get some delicious friction on his half-hard cock. But really, he has much better things to do than think about it. Like wrap one hand around both of Derek's wrists and the other around his throat, growling, “C'mon, you can do better than that, faggot. Gonna let yourself get beat by someone half your size?”

And, yeah, Derek is, that's the whole point, but that's doesn't mean it has to happen yet. So he bucks up hard, gives himself enough room to roll them both over and then he's straddling Stiles, grinding back against him with everything he's got. He puts his hand behind him, half to give the illusion of pinning Stiles' thighs to the carpet, half to display how fucking hard his nipples are, how much he needs them pinched, clawed, tortured, anything... and Stiles is kind enough to cooperate, reaching up to grab them both at once, fingernails sharp through the thin fabric of Derek's T-shirt.

The moan Derek gives is loud and ragged; Stiles thinks he might be distracted enough to pin for real and he goes for it, pushing Derek backwards until his head hits the floor between Stiles' shins, but Stiles doesn't let go of his death grip on Derek's nipples, just wriggles his legs free and grins down at his conquest, flushed and panting and now sporting an impressive wet patch on the front of his jeans.

Derek makes another attempt towards freedom, squirming back and forth—and then Stiles sees him coiling for a hard twist to the left and lifts up just enough that Derek unexpectedly pushes himself all the way onto his belly. “See? Brains win the day every time,” Stiles quips, tangling one hand in Derek's hair and pushing his face into the carpet. “What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my victory.” Stiles risks letting up the pressure for just a second, doing a quick 180 and sitting down hard on Derek's lower back.

“Fuuuuuuck, Stiles,” Derek groans. “Just get on with it already!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely...” Stiles yanks Derek's pants down roughly, just enough to expose his furry ass. “Hmm. Think I'll be able to pink that pale ass up at all?” He doesn't wait for a response, just dives right in, smacking first with his left, then his right, then his left again.

“I can try... to slow down... the healing, if you... like,” Derek pants between smacks.

“Oh, I motherfucking like. How do you feel about warm up?”

“Spanking, don't need it so much. When you get around to fucking me, I _really_ like being prepped. I guess I don't need it exactly, buuuuuh...” he trails off as Stiles takes his words to heart, holding his cheeks apart with one hand and brushing his fingertips lightly over Derek's hole.

“Ohhhh, yeah... that's nice,” Stiles whispers to himself, knowing Derek will be able to hear the reverent tone in his voice no matter how quiet he is, but giving absolutely no fucks. Any possibility of embarrassment went out the window so long ago, he can't even remember what it felt like. He lets his middle finger circle once, twice more, raptly watching the way Derek's tight muscle clenches and flutters open again under his touch. “Don't want to get ahead of myself yet, though. Maybe I'll make myself a nice rowan paddle for next time, make it so you really remember every time you try to sit... but for now...” And then Stiles is done talking, happy to just watch his own hands on Derek's ass, listening intently to the sharp gasps and rough moans as he slaps down again and again, one hand, then the other, then both at once.

He's not thinking about how many strikes or how long this has been going on for, just wales on Derek, not even noticing the effect on his own hands until Derek's getting nice and pink, groaning loudly with each strike, spreading his legs as wide as his lowered jeans allow and tilting his hips up.

“Derek?”

“Y-yeah?” Stiles is already painfully hard, but if he wasn't—well, the broken, needy tone in Derek's voice certainly would do it.

“The way you're holding yourself... do you _want_ me to hit your junk?”

“Ohfuckyes.”

“I'm guessing a little more warmup there than on your ass, huh?”

“Please,” he hisses, somehow spreading wider, tilting up further, presenting himself in a way that is impossibly obscene and absolutely delicious.

“Okay, next time there will also be enemas and I am gonna eat out you like nobody's business. Gonna rim you until I can't feel my face,” Stiles mutters through a suddenly dry mouth, lightly tapping on the back of Derek' balls with just his fingertips. The noise Derek makes at that is every kind of encouraging, and Stiles goes a little harder, a little higher up, hitting both asshole and taint. “Oh fuck.” Stiles has a flash of brilliance, pulls off his belt and folds it in half to crack it loudly, craning his head back to watch Derek's response.

Derek snaps his own head back, making eye contact for the first time since Stiles pinned him, and—oh shit. His eyes are wide and dark, face red from both arousal and scraping the carpet, lips bitten til they bleed. He nods, whimpering a little, before dropping his face back against the rug when he sees Stiles winding up to hit. “GodfuckingyesStiles!” he yells, volume only somewhat muffled by the floor, as the first bright red stripe blooms across his ass.

“Good choice, huh?” Stiles grab the belt just a few inches from the end, rains a dozen light strikes on Derek's more sensitive areas—his inner thighs, between his ass cheeks, his balls—and the moans just become louder and more desperate, Derek thrusting back to meet every hit. “All right, sourwolf, roll over.”

Derek does, obedient here like he never is in normal life, pulling his knees up and letting them fall to the side as soon as Stiles pulls his pants the rest of the way off, wrestling with his own shirt as Stiles settles between his legs.

Stiles can really see now the effect this has been having; Derek's flushed from his ears to his chest, cock throbbingly hard and dark at the head, a drop of precome pooling in the slit. He drops the belt and scrapes his nails from ankles to hips, smirking at the shaky breaths that elicits before using his fingers to smack Derek's dick like tiny floggers, up and down the length as Derek pants and thrusts up, up, looking for some kind of release. It's a beautiful cock, vertical except for the slight curve towards his belly button, not quite as big as Stiles' own, but still looks like a healthy mouthful. _Crap_. Really should have talked more about this before the whole nudity thing. It takes an enormous force of will, but Stiles pulls himself away, sits on the couch.

“What—hey—I—”

“Shh, shh, it's okay. I'm not stopping. We just—we didn't talk about barriers or anything, and Deaton gave me and Scott the whole werewolf sex talk years ago but I still think it's probably a good move to ask a fella before you just start licking his cock, no matter how pretty it is.”

“It's—gimme a second.” Derek sits up, leaning heavily against the couch, breathes through his mouth a few times. “Yeah, okay. We should've talked about this when I was asking you to fuck me into the floor, sorry. We can't really share diseases, and I can smell that you don't have anything. I, uh, I kinda gave up on sleeping with people I don't already know and trust after the whole... darach situation, which means I haven't slept with anyone, and I've been tested since for human and werewolf diseases. I have the paperwork around here if you want it, but you'll have to give me a minute to get up.”

“Dude, I might not be able to hear your heartbeat from here, but I know all your tells. And Deaton tested you, didn't he? Yeah, he woulda told me if there was a disease-type reason to stay away from you. He thought we were banging years ago.”

“Yeah, well, I kinda thought your dad had enough reason to hate me withou-”

“New rule! No talking about my dad during naked time! Moving on. So... I can go down on you, right? Maybe come in your ass after that?”

“Stiles. Stop talking.” Derek's cock is a little softer from their talk, but not by much, and it's on beautiful display as he lays back on the floor, hands above his head and legs wide.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Stiles slips off the couch, pressing Derek's thighs apart with his own knees as he leans in to bite a dark bruise into one hip. It won't last, but it's nice to look as he licks a long line up Derek's cock, root to tip, before wrapping his lips around it and sucking down hard. And okay, maybe Derek has been on edge for a long time, but that doesn't mean Stiles can't be totally smug at making Derek come as quickly as a teenage virgin, spunk hot and thick on his tongue. “That doesn't mean that fun time is over, does it?”

“Shit, no. Remember what I said about warm up?”

“Lots of fingering?!” Stiles is hyped; he loves getting someone worked open and worked up, loves the tight clench of muscle around his fingers, his knuckles, his wrist... okay, maybe a little ahead of himself there. “Lube? Gloves?”

“Bedroom. Top drawer.” Stiles is gone and back again before Derek can finish telling him he's wearing too many clothes still, and then he's wrestling with his shirts and pants at the same time in a way that would be downright comedic if they weren't both so desperate to be naked and rutting together. And then Stiles is naked on top of him, hands around his wrists, kissing him hard and desperate as they line up—the hard, insistent line of Stiles' cock against his soft, spit-damp one stirring his interest again.

“Fuck, Stiles, I need you... need you inside me, please.”

Stiles pulls back from Derek's mouth just enough to slip two fingers in, teases the wet tips against Derek's entrance as they kiss again, soft and languid this time. “I'm—Stiles, you're kind of, um, huge.”

“I know prepping and fisting aren't exactly the same, but I think the same motto applies: It's a journey, not a destination. I'll be slow and you let me know if you need anything different or less or more or anything, okay?”

Derek nods as Stiles lubes up one finger and slips it in to the first knuckle, teasing gently at Derek's rim as they keep kissing. Stiles pushes in further as he feels Derek relaxing under him, mouth and ass and mind all opening in concert. “More, Stiles, fuck, fuck me open.” Derek feels the cool drip of lube, the second finger thrusting in beside the first, a little uncomfortable but so fucking good, in and out and _fucking shit yes prostate_. “Harder, please, I just meant I like a lot of it, not go slow.”

“Sure thing, baby, I got you.” Stiles' fingers are thin, but long, and he's burying them as far as they go with every thrust now, scissoring them apart, pulling at Derek's rim as he makes room for a third, already stroking at the stretched skin where his hand meets Derek's ass, crooking up to make him scream. He twists his hand as he adds another finger, slithers down Derek's body to get a better view of his own hand disappearing into Derek's slick, clenching hole.

Derek buries his hands in Stiles' hair and whines for more, moans as he feels the pleasant stretch of four fingers deep inside him, not thrusting yet, just there, full and wonderful. Then they do start moving, edging out slowly before pushing back in. Stiles is content here, cock hard and leaking but in no rush to fuck, happy to pleasure his new boo like this for as long as said boo wants.

Or at least he is until Derek starts thrusting back against his hand, pushing himself against the unrelenting bulge of Stiles' knuckles, whining for more. “Baby? You want me to fuck you?” Derek whimpers in a way that could mean anything (well, Stiles is pretty sure it doesn't mean, “Get out of my house,” but it could just about anything else). “Or... you want my thumb?” Derek nods, keening and spreading his legs even farther apart and, yeah, Stiles is _all about_ werewolf flexibility “Yeah, that's it? You gonna take my whole hand like the fucking trooper you are?” Stiles isn't paying any attention to what he's saying now, just murmuring in a low, consistent stream to give Derek something to hold onto, something to relax into. He knows from experience that this part is hard for anybody, and, well, Stiles has big hands and no desire to hurt Derek in any way they haven't negotiated for.

He backs his hands out, just a little, enough to drip more lube onto his knuckles and palm, folds his hand almost in half as he presses his thumb between the fingers already buried deep in Derek, pressing forward millimeter by millimeter, eyes glued to Derek's face for any sign of negative response.

Not that he's getting any. Derek looks overcome by sensation, hands tangled up in his own hair now, eyes rolling back to show the whites of his eyes, which would be creepy any other time but is just so fucking sexy now.

“You with me, buddy?”

“Mmhmmmm...”

“Good, good, you're doing so great, I'm so proud of you. You got all my knuckles already, taking me so good, it's just the base of my thumb left and you can do that, can't you?”

“Stiles... yes... give it to me... give me your whole hand...” And he bears down and Stiles is _in_ , wrist disappearing as Derek groans with the pleasure of it all.

“That's it, baby, that's the whole thing. You want me to move?”

“Let—me,” Derek pants, clenching and unclenching his ass, just barely rolling his hips. Even the slightest change increases the pressure on his prostate, threatens to overwhelm him with sensation.

“Sure thing, whatever you want, whatever you need.” Stiles kisses his legs, his hips, watching in awe as Derek takes his hand and uses it for his pleasure, loud and unashamed and so fucking beautiful Stiles can't believe they've never done this before—all those times he'd been shoved against a wall maybe should have clued him in that Derek is a kinky motherfucker, but damn, boy.

“Stiles?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I think I'm ready for you to fuck me now.”

“Oh—okay! Yes. I'm, uh, I'm just gonna pull out, relax for me, okay? This is the hard part.” He sees Derek take a deep breath in, pulls out enough on the exhale to get his thumbs free. “Good boy, that was my thumb. Now the knuckles... yeah, now just the fingers and that's easy. There you go.” He strips the glove off inside out, throws it to the side. “You wanna do this here or go somewhere more comfortable?”

“Here. Fuck me through the floor, I want rug burn on my face. Fuck me _hard_ , Stiles. Make me bleed.”

Stiles swallows. “I could... yeah, okay, I can do that. Hands and knees, buddy.” He can't even see Derek move, it's so fast, but there he is, ass up and head turned to the side so Stiles can see the small, anticipatory smile on his face. He shifts his weight back onto his heels as he lines himself up. “Derek? I've been on edge for kind of a while now... don't think I'm gonna last too long.”

“Me either. Just fuck me hard.”

Stiles presses forward, sinks into Derek until his hips are flush with the other man's ass, wraps one hand around Derek's cock and one around his hip, and then it's zero to sixty. He tightens his grip on Derek's cock, jacking him hard, in rhythm with his punishing thrusts.

Derek reaches back, grabs at Stiles' thighs and pulls him in closer, harder. “Fuck, Stiles, yes. Hold me down, fuck me through the fucking floor.” Stiles is happy to oblige, taking his hand off Derek's hip and pushing down right over Derek's tattoo. At this rate, it won't just be his face with rug burn, but Derek is more than fine with that. The thought of being all marked up for Stiles, bleeding and used for Stiles... for Stiles... and he's coming, groaning and squeezing and humping back as far as he can onto Stiles' dick, desperate to feel his come, desperate to drive them over the edge together.

A few more thrusts, each harder than the last, and Stiles is coming too. He yanks Derek upright so they're kneeling together, bites down hard on the back of Derek's neck to stifle his scream.

They stay like that, frozen in orgasmic tableau, for a few minutes, until Stiles' heartbeat settles a little and he catches his breath enough to say, “C'mon, let's get you cleaned up before you heal. Don't need anyone asking weird questions about why there's actual carpet embedded in your cheeks, do we?”

**Author's Note:**

> Derek calls Stiles a faggot, affectionately, while they're text-arguing about superheroes. Later, Stiles calls Derek a faggot while they're wrestling in a way that is totally intended (and received by Derek) in a playful way, but could be interpreted as homophobic and/or triggering by some readers.
> 
> Thanks to Nonny for pointing out that could use a warning. I, uh, forgot it's not a huge turn on for 100% of the population. My bad.


End file.
